


you'll dream about that box

by bringyouhometoo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Pete's World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringyouhometoo/pseuds/bringyouhometoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, in the universe we know as Pete's World, there was an Amelia Pond, too? What if there was a crack in her bedroom wall? And what if, one night when she was seven years old, the Doctor and Rose came to call? Amy Pond-centric AU that runs parallel to, and eventually overlaps with, canon. Will at some point contain spoilers throughout series 7, and rating may go up in future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stars

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a...thing. That I am writing. That I'm pretty excited about. We'll see how it goes. This is my current NaNoWriMo project, so I can at least hope to promise regular updates - aiming for Monday and Thursday uploads at the moment. Hope you enjoy!

“Dear Santa. Thank for the dolls and the pencils, and the fish. It’s…Easter now, so I hope I didn’t wake you, but, honest, it is an emergency.”

The house is silent. Amelia can hear the tick of her bedroom clock, the drip of the tap in the bathroom down the hall, the faint hum of the fridge downstairs. And, at the edge of what she knows she can really hear – the whisper of something Else.

“There’s…a crack in my wall,” she says, pressing her palms more firmly together. “Aunt Sharon says it’s just an ordinary crack, but – I know it’s not, because sometimes, at night, there’s – voices.”

She pauses. There it is again, an echo of a long-forgotten dream.

_You know when grown-ups tell you everything’s going to be fine, and you think, they’re probably lying to make you feel better?_

She frowns, shakes her head; the sound disappears as if she’s shaken it out of her ear like a few drops of water. The thought of it doesn’t go away, though. “So, please, please send someone to fix it,” she whispers. “Or a police-man, or…”

There’s a knock at the door.

There’s never a knock at the door; not this late, not when it’s gone her bedtime, not when Aunt Sharon isn’t home. Amelia remains frozen for only a moment, still kneeling by her bed. Then curiosity takes hold.

“Back in a moment.”

It’s the work of a moment to find her slippers, her cardigan; on a whim, she picks up her torch as well, just in case she has to go outside or the person at the door isn’t nice and she has to run away. Whatever her reasons, it doesn’t matter. Amelia Pond is a practical sort of person, and a torch just _seems_ like a good thing to have with you in case of…in case of anything, really.

She pads downstairs quickly, pausing only for a moment to take in the obscured outlines of people – two of them – outside her door through the frosted glass. There’s a lump of fear sitting in her throat, cold and sharp, but there’s excitement too.

Amelia opens the door.

“Hello, I’m the Doctor and this is Rose. Can we come in?”

She just stares at them for a minute, taking them in. The tall man with the funny hair and the blue suit, and the grown-up lady who’s a lot shorter than him but smiles just as much.  Amelia likes them already – or wants to, anyway, and that’s almost the same thing. Still, letting them in is, she knows instinctively Not What You Should Do. It’s one of those Things That Are Dangerous they tell you about in school assemblies and on TV. It’s a Dangerous Thing.

“Who are you?” she asks instead, holding onto the edge of the front door and curling her fingers more securely around her torch with the other hand.

“I’m the Doctor,” the man – the _Doctor,_ he said – says. “And this is Rose.” He points, rather unnecessarily Amelia thinks, to the lady beside him.

“Yeah,” Amelia says, rolling her eyes a little. “You said that. Why did you knock on my door?”

“Uh—“ The Doctor shifts from one foot to the other. “Is your mum or dad there?”

“Haven’t got a mum or dad,” Amelia says automatically. “Just an Aunt.”

She sees something like pity flicker through both their faces, and hates it. Hates that she knows what pity _looks_ like. She’s seven.

“I haven’t even got an aunt,” the Doctor says, grinning widely at Amelia.

 “You’re lucky,” she says, smiling a little in response.  Maybe he’s okay.

“I know,” he nods wisely, and she can’t help it – she likes him.

“So this aunt,” the grown-up woman says, then, nudging the Doctor until he seems to remember what they were here to do. “Where is she?”

“She’s out,” Amelia says, shrugging.

“Left you on your own, did she?” The woman – Rose, the Doctor said her name was _Rose_ – asks, frowning.

“Not _scared,_ ” Amelia scoffs, and it’s honestly true. She’s used to being on her own.

“Course you’re not,” Rose nods, but it’s perfunctory – she’s peering past Amelia, up into the big, empty house.  Amelia squares her shoulders, lifts her chin. Defiance bristles through her.  Rose, perhaps sensing this, relaxes a little and stoops to look her properly in the eye. “We’d really like to come in, then, if that’s okay.”

“Are you…” Amelia fumbles for the words; she doesn’t know what she is supposed to ask. “Who are you?”

Rose and the Doctor exchange a quick glance, and seem to form some unspoken agreement; then they both get out their wallets, and show Amelia two official-looking cards with small writing and grainy photos. They’re even worse than the ones she got done at school; still, at least these are actually printed out and kept safe. Aunt Sharon forgot to send the form back, or even fill it out with an order for prints and frames and key-chains and magnets. Amelia tried not to mind.

“We’re from _Torchwood,_ ” Rose says, tearing Amelia out of her spiral of thoughts; the word sounds like it should be important, and she doesn’t miss the way the Doctor winces at it. “We’re here to….well, we don’t know, but we think we can help.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Are you –“ Amelia trips over the words in her excitement; hope has rushed through her like wildfire, and _thank you, Santa._ “Did you come about the crack in my bedroom wall?”

She doesn’t miss the way the Doctor reacts to that, either. It’s like a switch has been flipped inside him; suddenly he’s all alert, crouching down to look her right in the eye, his eyes sparkling with something _new,_ but also…familiar, and Amelia doesn’t know why or how that could be.

“That sounds about right,” he says, giving her a long, appraising look. “Want to tell us all about it?”

*

The Doctor wastes no time on niceties; as soon as Amelia opens the door to her bedroom, he strides in past her, clocks the crack in the wall, and presses his ear to it. Amelia stares as he runs his fingers along the ridges in the paint, the places where the wallpaper is curling and fraying, the brickwork underneath showing through and the crack still running through it.

“Feels like a…” he frowns. “Rift, or – something, I’m not—“

Rose takes a sharp breath in. “Rift?” she asks, and Amelia doesn’t know why, but the word sounds terrifying when said like that, all high and scared and sort of angry all at once.

The Doctor looks up, quickly shakes his head. “Not like that,” he says. “I think. More like… Two parts of space and time that should never have touched, pressed…together.”

“So, it’s like…like the spaceship,” Rose nods, and Amelia thinks she must have misheard her. “The fireplaces. Reinette. Yeah?”

He nods. Shakes his head. Nods again. Then shrugs. “Sort of.” He turns to Amelia. “Sometimes, can you hear --?”

“A voice,” she nods. “Yeah.”

The Doctor stands there for a few seconds longer, obviously straining to hear – then he casts about for a moment before picking up her water glass and emptying it rashly all over the floor; Amelia stares, Rose rolls her eyes, and both of them can only watch as he presses the glass to the wall and listens, hard.

Amelia doesn’t need the glass; she’s been listening for a while, now.

The Doctor frowns. “Would…have had?”

“The times we had,” Amelia nods, reciting from memory. “Would have had, should have had. He says that one a lot.”

“He?” Rose asks quickly, carefully.

“I don’t know,” Amelia admits. “It sounds like a he. But it’s just a whisper. It might not be anyone.”

“It’s….” the Doctor is still standing there, staring at the wall, looking beyond baffled. “But that’s…”

“Doctor?” Rose takes a step forward, confident. “What is it, what did you hear?”

“But that’s not possible –“ he sounds positively outraged. “It can’t be!”

“ _What_ can’t be?”

He points accusingly at the wall. “That,” he says, helpfully. “That’s impossible.”

“Okay…” Rose says slowly, and Amelia thinks she would have started shouting at him for being _useless_ by now, or at least stamped her foot. “So what do we do?”

“We –“ the Doctor hesitates. Looks at Amelia, for a moment, obviously curious about her. Then his eyes snap to Rose, and there’s _something_ there, something even Amelia can recognise and she’s known them for all of ten minutes, _and_ she’s seven. Something that makes up his mind for him. “We close it. Force it all the way open, make it snap back on itself.”

“Will that work?” Rose asks, and the Doctor just grins, sort of manically.

“In theory? Absolutely.”

“Is—“ Amelia is surprised to hear how small her voice comes out, and consciously squares her shoulders, because she _isn’t scared._ “Is it safe?”

The Doctor gives her what is clearly supposed to be a reassuring smile. “You know when grown-ups tell you that everything is going to be fine, and you think that they’re _probably_ just saying that to make you feel better?”

Amelia stares at him, for a moment completely transfixed. That sounds _familiar,_ and she doesn’t know why. Or  at least, she doesn’t know how it could. That’s…something the whisper has said, or something very close to it. And if the Doctor is saying something that the whisper said, then –

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Rose says with a lilting smile, reaching out and holding her hand. “Promise.”

Amelia looks up at her. “Yeah?”

The Doctor waits just long enough to get a nod from Rose, then jumps into action; he steps back from the wall slightly, and produces from his suit pocket a strange device, unlike anything Amelia’s ever seen before. It’s silver and shaped sort of like a pen, but when the Doctor presses a button on its side it flashes blue and makes a low sort of…wobbling noise. The Doctor points this device, blue light first, at the wall; for a moment, nothing happens, and he looks utterly ridiculous.

And then the crack opens wide, and Amelia can do nothing but grip Rose’s hand so tightly she can feel her own pulse beating back at her through her fingertips.

Stars.

There are stars in her bedroom wall. Darkness, too, black and endless and glowing with green-yellow-blue-milky lights, peppered with the shining pinpricks of starlight… Amelia feels a breeze, like the universe is sighing; the wind on her face comes from a different world.

“Wow,” Rose breathes next to her, and Amelia can only nod. The Doctor is still pointing that device at the crack, now burst open wide and spilling the stars across her bedroom wall. His face is set, determined; Amelia thinks he looks worried, almost panicked, which is impossible – how could anyone _panic,_ when there are _stars_?

Then the crack begins to wobble at the edges – there is a faint hissing sound – it starts closing, the wall returning to paint and wallpaper and brick, the stars shrinking out of sight.

There’s an echo of a whisper, carried on the wind from that far-off world – _I don’t belong here anymore…_

“No—“ Amelia has barely enough to step forwards and tug at the Doctor’s arm slightly. “No –”

The crack is closing. For a moment, it stands out, that first sinister smiling shape, bright white against the pale wallpaper, and Amelia lunges forward to run her fingers over the familiar line. Then its gone, and her wall is…just a wall.

_Bye bye, Pond._

“No,” she whispers again, too confused to say anything. “No, why did you do that?”

 The Doctor just gives her an odd look. “The universe pouring through a crack in your bedroom wall, and I close it up so you can be safe, and you ask, _why_?”

“There were _stars,_ ” Amelia says, folding her arms, too upset to meet his eye; she thinks she hears him puff out a long breath of air.

“Okay,” Rose says after a short pause, coming over and nudging Amelia lightly before crouching down to wrap her in a gentle hug. “It’s okay. You’re okay.

“Of course I’m _okay—_ “Amelia wants to stamp her foot in frustration. “There were _stars_!”

She thinks she sees Rose bite back a smile. “I know, yeah. Pretty special.”

“Stars,” Amelia says again, blinking back tears. “And you made them _go away.”_

She doesn’t talk about the voice; the voice that talked to _her_ , the voice that said goodbye… It’s too much.

“The crack wasn’t just a…crack,” the Doctor says cautiously, fixing her with an appraising stare, as if calculating how much he could tell her. “Take away the wall and the crack would have still been there. It was a crack in the whole universe, opening up to…”

“To?” Amelia demands, still sceptical. She’s not sure she likes this Doctor, this mad man who strolled into her bedroom and made the stars go away.

“I’m not sure,” he admits then, looking deject. “Another universe, I _think._ ”

“Another—“ Rose’s voice is suddenly higher, louder; Amelia’s beginning to recognise something in that specific tone of voice. Grudging hope, maybe, but with a sharp dose of caution and pain in there, too.  Rose doesn’t _want_ to feel this hope, whatever it means to her. “You think—“

“No,” the Doctor snaps, and she shrinks back towards Amelia; then he sighs, rubbing a hand across his chin. “Sorry. I’m not sure, actually. Could have been. Could have been anywhere, it was just a random crack opening up into space somewhere, but… The _voice,_ where did that…”

The Doctor pauses, running his hands over the now-ordinary wall again, frowning. Amelia watches him, breathing quickly; if he finds the voice, he’ll make that go away, too. For one long, drawn-out moment, she is frozen, waiting to see what will happen – then the Doctor frowns, pouts, and leans back.

“Doctor?” Rose has regained her composure, Amelia thinks; she sounds all business again, sort of clipped and efficient.

“Nothing,” he says quietly, running one hand through his hair and looking defeated. “It’s gone, there’s…The connection, it just severed, I can’t – it’s just gone.”

Rose slumps in something like relief disguised as disappointment (or maybe it’s the other way around), and Amelia does her best to look suitably concerned. 

_Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey…Do you know what this is?_

Yes, she does. It’s her voice, her secret, and it’s not gone anywhere. Amelia has to bite the inside of her cheeks to stop from bursting out with this information. There’s something about these two that makes her want to keep this a secret from them; something that makes her think they’d only try and take it away from her, like they took away the stars before she could even really see them.

Dimly, Amelia becomes aware of Rose speaking quietly to the Doctor. “…Maybe it’s for the best.”

He nods, still frowning, tapping the silver device against his chin and pursing his lips. “Maybe,” he says – then his eyes go very wide. “No! Yes – ohhhh, no, no, maybe – yes! Yes, that’s – no, it can’t be, I mean… Yes! No…”

This goes on for some time; Amelia casts a worried look at Rose, who looks equal parts exasperated and curious. Finally, the Doctor stops his pacing, and rounds on them.

“Right, sorry about that… Amelia,” he says, pocketing his device and starting towards her as if to give her a hug; he seems t change his mind at the last minute, veering to one side and avoiding her eyes. “We’ll have to be off. Things to…you know. _Things_ to do.”

Rose raises an eyebrow. “Things?”

“ _Things,_ ” the Doctor emphasises, with what he probably thinks is a subtle nod towards Amelia.

“Right,” Rose nods, cautiously glancing at Amelia. “And..?”

“We’re off,” he repeats emphatically – and then he’s already gone, hurtling out of the room like a baby deer, all skinny limbs and _whoosh-_ ing hair. Amelia can do not much more than stare after him, and then turn to Rose with a hundred questions burning her lips.

“Sorry,” Rose says quickly, before Amelia can so much as start talking. “I think I better follow him, but we’ll come back, okay? Don’t worry about the crack, the Doctor said he’d cut the link, you shouldn’t have any problems with it anymore.”

Rose is already half-way out of the door. Amelia feels, suddenly, helpless. Insignificant. Seven years old. “But—“she starts, and Rose pauses; turns towards her.

“We’ll come back,” she promises, taking a few quick steps towards Amelia and running a gentle hand over her hair. ”Yeah? Check up on you, see how you’re doing.”

“But the—“ Amelia feels foolish, and she knows she’s being stubborn. She doesn’t care. This could be her last chance. “But the _stars._ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rose smiles and rolls her eyes, not unkindly. “I’ll see what I can do. You might just see them again. We can explain more, at least, yeah? Soon. We’ll come back, and see how you are. Promise.”

“People always say that,” Amelia mumbles, face hot.

“Hey,” Rose says chidingly. “Are we _people_?”

Amelia stares up at Rose, and shrugs, defiant. “Yes.”

For a moment, Rose is clearly torn. She pauses, dithering, one hand still resting against Amelia’s hair; it’s obvious she’s not sure she should leaving like this. But then—

“Rose!” The Doctor’s voice carries up the stairs, his tone impatient, eager. “Rose, we need to go, I have to get this reading stabilised –“

“Better go,” Rose says finally, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’ll come back for you, yeah? Trust me.”

And with that, she takes a step away from Amelia…another… another, and then she’s out of the door. Amelia just stands there, feeling her heart hurl itself against her ribcage over and over, as she listens to Rose go down the staircase and out the front door. There’s a pause – a fumbled conversation that Amelia strains to hear – and then the door slams shut.

The house echoes with silence.

Amelia stares around her room for a long time, too stunned to do anything else; she’s still in her slippers and wearing that old cardigan that’s always been far too big on her, and she feels small and stupid and alone. For a while there – really, just a few minutes -- she thought someone had arrived to help. Really help, and give her some answers to all these questions she’s had all her life without even really knowing how to put them into words,  and show her the stars, and…take her away from _this._ And then they just. Left.

Rose said they’d be back soon. Yeah.

Amelia sits on the edge of her bed, holding the promise carefully against her heart. She doesn’t move for a long time.

In the silence of the moment, the quiet hours of the morning where the world is dark and the house is still, Amelia makes her plan. She’s going to wait. It might take Rose a while to come back – and Amelia isn’t sure the Doctor ever really promised, really – so maybe she’s going to have to wait for a long time. But when they come back, and they _will,_ she’s going to be ready.

When Aunt Sharon comes in to wake her niece for school the next morning, she finds Amelia fast asleep on top of the covers, fully dressed in her sturdiest jeans, a white jumper, and – inexplicably – a bike helmet. Strewn across the floor are her arts and crafts materials; glitter glue, watercolours, crayons and felt tips, cards and papers in all shapes and colours. In amongst the clutter, there are a few finished drawings and designs and carefully stencilled lists of “Things I’ll Need” and “Places I Want To See” and “Questions To Ask.”

Finally, underneath a big Child’s Encyclopaedia of the Natural World that had until now been gathering dust on the top shelf of the bookcase, Sharon unearths a sheath of finished drawings. Amelia has drawn space;  inky black skies dotted with stars, bright blue rocket-ships on their way to the moon with a smiling ginger head poking out of a window, strange and fantastical planets with dinosaurs and talking rhinos, flying whales and lizard-people.

“Amelia,” Sharon frowns, shaking the little girl gently by one shoulder. “Amelia, love, what’s all this?”

Amelia stirs, and gives her aunt a wide, sleepy smile. “I’m going to find out everything I can,” she says simply, as if it were just another thing to tick off her to-do list for the day. “About everything. “

“Everything?”

“Space,” Amelia says, pointing to her drawings. “See? And I’m going to see the stars.”


	2. Sambouca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, chapter two! Somehow still on schedule, just about.

"Please stop writing and put down your pens," the invigilator's crisp voice rings out; the hall lets out a collective breath as everyone's spines relaxes for what feels like the first time in a month. Amy pushes back in her chair, glancing one last time over the final paragraph of the essay question; then she allows herself, for a second or two, the smallest of smiles. Caught here in this moment – before panic and self-doubt and nerves kick in closer to the day they get their results back – she can acknowledge to herself that she did well. That, however it goes, she has done everything in her power.

The energy in the air begins to palpably crackle as the invigilators comes around to collect exam papers, answer sheets; fifty students shift restlessly in their seats, exchanging oddly nervous glances and half-stifled laughs. Finally, finally, the exam papers have all been returned to the front desk; used to the routine now, the entire class leans forward as one, watching as the stack of papers that contains their one last building blocks towards the future is placed inside a large brown envelope and sealed away for good. For a breathless second, the room is silent; Amy has leant so far forwards that she can feel her balance shifting, and she's about to fall off the edge of her chair when –

"Fucking hell!" Mels shouts, with a look of wild joy. She kicks back her chair, and jumps to her feet. "It's over!"

The room erupts into a ragged cheer – even the stuffiest of teachers, gathered at the front now, allow themselves a grin and a polite round of applause for their graduated class. It's as though Mels' outburst has unlocked something in everyone: chairs get knocked over, bags and coats go flying, and the students join into one wave of freedom, rolling out of the room and out towards the gates, leaving books and pens and graphics calculators discarded in its wake.

Once outside, everyone suddenly seems slightly at a loss. They're free to go – have no reason to stay confined within the gates which have described the edges of this one aspect of their lives for seven years now – but, somehow, no one wants to be the first one to actually leave, for the last time. The unstoppable wave of momentum peters out, and the students – united for that one moment in shared euphoria – separate out into smaller groups and cliques. Amy finds herself sitting on the wall next to the science labs like on so many breaks and free periods, wedged between Rory and Mels, the backs of her bare legs resting against the worn brick.

Rory wastes no time in getting to the point. "How d'you do?" he asks, without much preamble, turning first, perfunctorily, to Mels and then to Amy. "Nice essay choices, I thought, but I wish they'd asked more human biology, it was all plants and animal behaviour for, like, the first three or four pages…"

"Rory," Mels interrupts, with a well-practised sigh of suffering. "We're not going to sit here and go over the exam with you."

"Mels," Amy says quickly, rolling her eyes. "Leave it." To Rory, she adds, "I think it was okay. Nothing too unexpected, and I managed to work in a lot of my research stuff into the essay."

Rory nods knowledgeably. "Thought you might," he says, without a hint of bitterness; he seems genuinely pleased for her. "Right up your street, that was."

Amy smiles, feeling his words sink into her, ringing with conviction. Yes. Yes, he's right, it was right up her street – genetics and evolution, and the ethical ramifications of looking too far into humanity's base code – she wrote a whole independent research project on the topic just a few months ago, and it got one of the highest marks in her year – Mrs Sykes always said, if it was one thing Amy could do, it was look at the science and then argue with it. She's done well; she knows she has.

Rory's still looking at her too intently, his eyes bright; Amy's face suddenly feels hot, and she makes herself turn to look back at Mels.

"How do you think you did?"

Her friend just shrugs languidly. "Not bad," she says, with a small smirk. "Only took Bio so we could copy off each other back in Year Twelve, you know that. I've passed, which is as much as anyone is expecting of me."

"Mels!"

"What? It's true," Mels says, staring Amy down. "It's all well and good for you, Miss Science. I'm looking for work, now, and no one at the job centre is going to care how I did in Biology. They'll see that I've got four A Levels, and that's all."

Amy flushes; not for the first time, she's reminded unpleasantly of the upcoming months. She's got her university offers, true – Natural Sciences at some of the top places In the country, and with the right results she'll get to pick and choose between them – but Rory's already confirmed his place at medical school, doing Nursing and Pharmaceutics – and Mels? Mels didn't even apply. Mels is going to do whatever Mels wants to do, and that's fine; Amy just wishes the separation, the distance between them, wasn't as inevitable as Mels is already making it sound.

"You could still apply," Rory offers, after a short pause; Mels just snorts. "What? You could!"

"Leave it," Amy mutters, giving Mels what she hopes is a friendly nudge in the side.

"I'm only saying," Rory says, huffing slightly. "It's still an option."

"Not really my thing, Williams," Mels says flatly; they've had this conversation too many times for any real bite to remain In the argument. "Can't wait to be shot of this place. It's only you guys that kept me here past 16, anyway."

"University will be different. You'll get more choices, you'll get to study what you want."

"I don't want to—"

"Well, what else are you going to do?" Rory snaps, and Amy feels Mels flinch beside her. "Go full-time in the drive-thru? Look for some miserable office job you'll be bored of by the time you're twenty-five? Live at home until you're thirty?"

"Can't do that," Mels says, quietly, and Amy sees the realisation hit Rory like a physical blow. "They kick you out when you turn 19, make you move into a half-way house. Or had you forgotten?"

"I didn't mean—" Rory is flustered, shame-faced, his cheeks red; but Mels has already slid off the wall and picked up her bag.

"Whatever," she says, her voice tight, steely. "Laters, Amy."

And with that, she's walked off, her hips swinging, her heels clicking across the school playground one last time. Amy and Rory both just sit there for a moment after she's rounded the gates and disappeared from view, both too dumbfounded to speak. Then Amy rounds on Rory.

"What the hell?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" He does at least sound genuine. "I didn't think, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"That was out of order," Amy says quietly, fixing him with her glare. Mels has been her friend longer than Rory has, so she's angry with him just out of principle; not to mention the fact that he really has crossed a line. "Moron."

"I didn't mean it to come out like that," Rory mutters. "I just meant, you know. She talks all the time about wanting to get out of here, and then she doesn't even apply. Seems like…I don't know, I just wish I could help."

"She doesn't need help," Amy says, raising a sharp eyebrow and enjoying, at least a little bit, the way Rory squirms under her stare. "Especially not yours. So what if she doesn't want to go to uni?"

"I know, I know, all right?"

"You better apologise."

"I will!"

"Well," Amy says, momentarily flummoxed; she hadn't expected him to acquiesce quite that easily. "Good, then."

He laughs a little, rubbing the back of his hand along his jaw. "I'll go round the home tonight after dinner, talk to her then, okay? Then we can all go out later."

Amy nods, smiling despite herself; they've planned this for so long, their first night out since before exams started – she's finally 18 now, too. No more relying on dodgy fake IDs and having to flirt her way past every slimy bouncer who gets off on the power games; she can just wave her actual, legal ID card now, and swan past the door without so much as a flicker of nerves.

"All right," she says, sliding to the ground and shouldering her bag. "Sounds like a plan."

"Where we going?" Rory asks her, jumping off the wall and falling into step beside her.

"No idea," Amy admits, feeling the delicious sense of freedom that the word entails. "Though we could just improvise."

"Wicked."

"Wicked," she echoes, glancing over at Rory to find him already watching her; there's a beat, and then he looks away again, smiling down at his shoes. After a moment, Amy laughs. "Can't believe school's over."

"Crazy," Rory agrees, and Amy has to snort, elbowing him in the side and smirking when he stops to stare at her, confused. "What?"

"Would it kill you to disagree with me some time?"

The tips of his ears are pink, and Amy almost feels sorry for him. Almost. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Complete and utter compliance isn't sexy, you know," Amy tells him, pressing her lips together to keep from giggling when he trips over his own feet and has to grab onto the nearest hedge to keep his balance. "Just makes you seem sort of wet. Like play-doh."

Rory has to smile at that, at least; when he looks up to meet her eyes, his gaze is surprisingly steady. "I'll keep that in mind."

They start walking again after that by unspoken agreement, elbows and hands knocking together, feet almost touching on the narrow pavement. Amy lets a few steps pass in silence; then, quietly, and without so much as looking over at Rory, she says, "Good."

He sputters slightly, but manages to keep his stride steady. When Amy looks over at him what feels like an eternity later, he's smiling quietly at the houses and cars like they're the best thing he's ever seen.

They say goodbye at the corner of Amy’s street, and she watches him trudge off towards his own house, keeping her eyes fixed on him until he’s disappeared from her sight. Then, suddenly embarrassed by herself, she turns on the spot and runs the familiar stretch of pavement, not breaking her stride until she’s reached her gate and thundered up the drive to knock loudly on the front door.

*

“Okay, okay, time to do a round of shots,” Mels says, her voice several tones too loud to be considered normal; Amy just giggles, pressing her face into the beanbag she’s claimed as her own, and watches as Rory makes a valiant attempt to get to his feet and help Mels pour out three measures of Sambouca (yes, they’re drinking Sambouca. It’s that sort of night). Mels just gives him a fond sort of pat on the head and hands him his – indecently generous – shot. “Honestly, you two. Can’t take you anywhere.”

"I'm fine!" Amy protests, and she is, she is fine, she just can't quite remember how to get out of this beanbag, and why would she, the beanbag is comfortable, the beanbag is warm, the beanbag is her friend, this really is an excellent beanbag. "I like the beanbag."

"You've said," comes Mels' amused response. "Now, come on. Drink on three! One, two –"

"Three," Rory crows cheerfully, tipping the liquor down his throat and watching with crowing delight when Amy does the same and starts coughing and sputtering. "Ha!"

"Shut up," Amy grumbles, waving her hand absentmindedly at Rory; then, when he grabs her hand and lets himself fall towards her, landing square in her lap with his head pressed against the crook of her neck, "Oof. Hello."

"Hi," he smiles, his voice all raspy and low. "Think…Think I'm a bit plastered."

"That's okay," Amy says dumbly; her mind has gone exceedingly blank, reduced to a warm sort of fuzzy glow. "Me too. S'allowed. We're done! No more exams!"

"No more exams," Rory echoes, sounding thoughtful. "No more school. You're at school."

"No I'm not, idiot," Amy says crossly; not missing the way Mels has had to lie face-down on her pillows in an attempt to stifle an attack of the giggles. "I'm here."

"Yeah, but –" For a moment, Rory looks like he is lost in thought, concentrating very hard on formulating a complicated sentiment out of his thoughts. "If I stop going, I mean, going to school, I'll stop seeing… you."

Oh.

Amy's face feels very warm.

"Well," she says, unnecessarily, not knowing how to end that sentence; she just repeats herself instead, hoping for some kind of help from Mels or Rory but not really expecting any. "Well."

"Smell nice," Rory comments then, pressing his nose into her hair. "Like cookies. Christmas!"

"It's cinnamon," she insists, shoving him gently off him. "Remember? You got me it. Birthday. Last birthday. Big bottle of cinnamon vanilla shampoo."

"Oh," Rory nods faintly, looking confused. "Oh, yeah."

Honestly. There she'd been, almost ready to believe that Rory had actually been the first seventeen-year old boy in the history of seventeen-year old boys to actually buy a friend-who's-a-girl a bottle of shampoo, but – no, that would have been too much to ask. His mum chose the shampoo, Amy knows full well that all Rory did was sign the card, and here she is, a year later, still using the fucking shampoo out of some inexplicable drive to make him notice it, and he tells her she smells like cookies.

"You okay?" Dimly, Amy is aware of Mels speaking to her, sounding vaguely concerned. "You look like you're about to start crying."

Amy blinks rapidly, trying hard to dislodge the weepy feeling in her gut – it's so ridiculous, crying about shampoo, really, what does she care, Rory's just a stupid boy, and this is definitely all the alcohol talking, no other explanation else would make sense. She's drunk and scared of the future and crying about smelling like cookies, and okay, so maybe letting Mels pour those last shots wasn't a good idea.

"Rory," Mels says then, with a long-suffering sigh. "Get off Amy, you made her cry."

"What?" Rory sounds outraged. "I didn't!"

"Yes you did," Mels insists, managing to languidly get to her feet – watching, Amy is instantly jealous of her ability to make anything, even getting out of bed while drunk and wearing an old teddy bear as a "fashionable hat", make sexy, she thinks it's something about the legs moving slower than you'd expect them to be – and reaching out with one hand to pull Rory. To his feet. "Ugh, wasted boy. Look at her."

Rory, swaying slightly on the spot, looks down on Amy; Amy tries very hard to look aloof and cool and languid, but just ends up sinking slightly further into the beanbag and letting a fresh wave of giggles burst out of her mouth. Rory smirks a little, then turns to Mel.

"I don't see her crying!"

"She was a second ago," Mels insists; and this is the Mels that Amy loves, a little bit drunk and blurry around the edges, but so loud and impulsive and fiercely protective, ready to take on anyone who so much as looks at her best friends the wrong way, crackling with energy – Amy is reminded of an angry bear cub.

Rory, still baffled by this joint attack of female emotion – Mels is cross with him again, and Amy is still sniffling to herself and cuddling her beanbag – clearly decides to call it a day and just give in. Which, when faced with an angry Mels Zucker and a weepy Amy Pond, seems entirely reasonable.

"I'm sorry I made you cry, Amy," he says gravely, before turning back to Mels. "Mels, I'm very sorry I made Amy cry."

Mels considers him for a long moment, head to one side. "Mmh, all right," she says eventually, smirking when Rory lets out a visible puff of air. "As long as you really understand what you did wrong,"

Amy can't help it; she bursts out laughing at that, jumping to her feet and pulling both Rory and Mels into a messy hug, all long limbs and warm, sloppy enthusiasm. "I love you," she tells Mels, in no uncertain tones; Mels just smiles that smile of hers and kisses Amy on the cheek. "And you, too," Amy says a moment later, turning her head to meet Rory's eyes; in the confusion of the hugging, their faces are far closer together than she anticipated. His eyes are steady, fixed on hers with an even look of….Amy thinks she'd call it anticipation, if she had to put a word to it.

For a moment, she thinks he might kiss her; for a moment, she thinks she wouldn't mind.

Then he simply turns away, extracting himself out of the hug and sitting down on the edge of Mels' bed, smiling down at his knees, looking for all the world like he's simply enjoying a private joke with himself. Amy's not quite sure how he's done it, but somehow it's her that's the eager one, and him doing the beckoning, the inviting, the teasing.

The mere suggestion that Rory might not immediately jump at the chance as soon as she gave him so much as a hint of an outright yes makes Amy feel….wrong-footed somehow. Isn't this how it goes, her and him? They've been friends for years, she's always that little bit too handsy, too affectionate, he accidentally lets something altogether too much like feelings slip and then promptly never acknowledges it again, and she's always three steps ahead, just out of reach, Rory always ready, always waiting for her to give him the right sort of sign…

Well. Now that she's here, now that she thinks she'd say yes, if he ever asked again, he seems to be – refusing to play by her rules. The game has abruptly changed, and Amy's not quite sure she understands these new rules yet; still, that might make it sort of exciting.

"Come on," she says abruptly, picking up an abandoned can at random and downing the remaining beer in one swig. "It's nearly…fuck, it's gone eleven, we have to go!"

"Calm down," Mels tells her, sounding amused. "Queues will be horrendous if we show up before midnight, anyway, we've got plenty of time."

"Oh. Right," Amy says, disgruntled; she sits down with a huff next to Rory, leaning unconsciously into his shape until their thighs are pressed together and her head is resting against his shoulder. "Well. Okay, well. Let's go soon."

"We will," Mels promises, eyes glinting; their destination of the night has been her choice, a new place opened up in an old industrial estate just north of London. It stays open until eight o'clcok in the morning, drawing the local teenagers in with their lax policy on asking for ID, as well as attracting those city boys and girls with more stamina than the clubs in town cater to.

"How are we getting there, again?"

"Taxi," Rory says quickly, nudging Amy in the side. "Thought we can treat ourselves, yeah? No more exams!"

"No more exams, ever," Amy nods, still feeling a strange sense of wild new recklessness at those words; today is the night she grows up, she's not a kid anymore, stuck in school and worrying about getting the right exam results. She's done with school, forever, and in just a few months she'll be out of here. Just a few months more of waiting and planning and hoping, and she'll be on her way to find out…some answers. She'll be taking the first steps that will take her out into the stars, she's sure of it, can almost feel the wind on her face; tonight, then, Amy will celebrate. Tomorrow, the real work begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing and flirting and rock'n'roll in sleepy alt!Leadworth, oh my. Such debauchery. Read on! And review if you feel so inclined, etc, etc, see you on Thursday.


	3. Stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a thing with the chapter titles and am already floundering. Just ignore them for now.

August seems to arrive suddenly that year; one moment, it’s the middle of the summer holidays, and all Amy cares about is going on beach trips with Mels and Rory, wandering around over-crowded libraries and museums  for hours on end whenever she can scrape together the train fare to London, and working double shifts at the Blue Bean Café.  Then one day she wakes up and it’s the 16th of August; the day she gets her A Level results.

Breakfast is a quiet, dull affair. Amy reads the back of the cereal packet at least six times in a failed attempt to dispel some of this excess frantic energy, and jumps every time she thinks she hears the phone ring; Rory has promised to call for her when he sets off from his house, so they’ll meet along the way. Aunt Sharon is out at work – Amy isn’t quite sure she even bothered telling her that today is The Day.  As excited as her aunt is for her, as much as she’s enjoyed their planning sessions and trips to IKEA to start getting together all the things she’ll need…today is hers, and no one else’s. Today is the day she’s been building up to for more than half her life; from this point onwards, there will be nothing holding her back.  Nothing unless she fails.

Amy pauses, frozen with a spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth, and forces herself to take a deep breath in. She hasn’t failed. She _hasn’t._ She’s done well, she knows that much, even if there’s no earthly way of knowing whether she’s done well _enough_ for Cambridge, or even made her safety offer for UCL…She’s done well, and she can always apply to somewhere slightly less competitive through Clearing if she hasn’t made the grades, and if _everything_ goes wrong she can always take a year out and try again –

She _needs_ to have done well. She _needs_ those grades, needs to have made _that_ offer, she can’t take a year out and stay home for another twelve months getting under her aunt’s feet and going slowly mad at the café, she has to get out of here, she needs to get to Cambridge, she needs to get there, she needs answers, needs to _know –_

Amy puts down her spoon, slowly and methodically, and picks up her glass to take a sip of orange juice. Only when she’s calmed her breathing back down again is she allowed to look across at the clock on the kitchen wall; 7:23 in the morning.  Fifteen more minutes before she can expect Rory to call for her – school isn’t that far away. The gates will open at eight o’clock, and not a moment earlier.

The next seventeen-and-a-half minutes are some of the slowest of Amy’s life. She washes up her breakfast things and tidies the kitchen, she brushes her teeth and changes her jumper for a lighter cardigan, she unties her shoelaces and then ties them again, she applies a fresh coat of lip-gloss… And after that, there is nothing to do but sit on the sofa next to the landline phone, and wait.

Her stomach feels as though she has swallowed a bucket of acid; suddenly, Amy isn’t so sure that eating such a substantial breakfast was a good idea. Her insides are in knots, and she thinks she might be about to throw up –

The phone rings, and Amy snatches it up with an angry sort of relief. “Rory?”

There’s a pause, and the line clicks off.

_What the fuck_.

For a long moment, Amy just stares at the receiver in her hand, and listens to the blank dialling tone. She’s just managed to start pressing the buttons for _last caller,_ hands starting to tremble unconsciously – what if that was school, what if they’ve lost her results card, or worse yet, already opened it and are calling to let her know that she’s failed _everything_  --  when the phone rings again, receiver buzzing slightly in her hands.

Amy stabs at the _answer call_ button, and lifts the phone to her ear. “What?”

There’s a short pause, and then – crushingly familiar – she hears Rory’s bemused voice. “Hello to you, too.”

“Rory,” Amy says, closing her eyes and breathing out slightly; of course it’s Rory. “Hi.”

“What was all that about?”

“Er—“ Suddenly, Amy feels wrong-footed all over again. “Didn’t you just call me and hang up on me?”

“No… You just took forever to pick up, that’s all.”

Well, that’s not right; Amy was holding the phone _in her hand_ when it rang, she answers the call almost immediately, it can’t have rang more than twice, if that.

“Weird,” she huffs. “Guess your call got stuck behind that other one.”

“Other one?” Rory sounds distracted, impatient; from the shifting noises Amy can pick up through the phone, it sounds like he’s already putting on his shoes and getting ready to walk out of the door. “What other one?”

“That weird call,” Amy snaps back, trying hard not to raise her voice; it’s a petty thing to get worked up over, she knows that, but she’s too high-strung today to _not_ let it get it too her. “Some randomer, I guess. Called me and hung up as soon as I answered. Just before you called.”

“Oh,” Rory says vaguely, and, yep, he’s definitely already standing by his front door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, itching to hang up and start walking. “Weird, yeah.”

“You ready?” Amy asks after a short pause, finally taking pity on him; she swears she _hears_ Rory rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, course I am. You?”

“Yeah,” she says, suddenly nervous again; the mystery of the prank phone call, however insignificant, was a nice distraction, while it lasted. “See you at the corner in five?”

“Sure, yeah.”

They say their goodbyes quickly – both of them stretched tight, with no real room for social niceties – and then, finally, _finally,_ Amy sets off. The brisk wind on her face calms her slightly, the air colder than it really should be for mid-August; the sky is grey and dense, the colours of the leaves in the trees lining her street too bright in comparison, sickly yellows and garish greens. She’s not aware of running, or even of walking particularly quickly, but she makes it to the corner in record time, and has to wait a few minutes, arms wrapped around herself for warmth, or just something to hold on to.

*

The school seems eerily still and silent, considering how crowded and noisy the playground is; Amy has to push her way past countless groups of parents, siblings, friends, all gathered here to support a few hundred school leavers. She sees Jimmy Stone standing with his parents, a look of dull resentment on his face while his father yells and brandishes an envelope. Bad news, then. By contrast, Mels is radiant, running at Rory and Amy at full pelt and pulling them into a rushed hug.

“Passed!” she yells, her mouth inches away from Amy’s ears; Amy flinches, but smiles instinctively, tightening her arms around Mels’ still-shaking torso. “I passed everything! Two Bs and a C!”

“Brilliant,” Amy chokes out, meeting Rory’s eyes for a moment over the top of Mels’ curly hair; they share a look that is equal parts fond pride and sheer, unadulterated terror. Now that other people have got their results, now that she can _see_ those envelopes being passed around and studied, Amy feels like every passing moment that she can’t hold her own results in her hands is a moment wasted.

“Er – Mels…” Rory detaches himself awkwardly, taking a step back. “Me and Amy better get our results, actually.”

“Course, yeah,” Mels laughs, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “See you in a bit, brainboxes.”

“See you,” Amy manages, choking a little on the words, grasping Mels’ elbow for a moment before letting go. “But seriously, Mels, well done. So proud.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mels nods, already brash again; the moment of childish, enthusiastic pride has passed. “Not like it matters, really! Already got a job, haven’t I? Hey, maybe I should ring up Steve, see if I can get a pay raise now that I’ve got my _three A Levels._ ”

“There’ll be other jobs…” Amy tries, shifting on her feet. “You know that, yeah? Nothing stopping you, now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mels says, her face twisting into an odd smile. “Go, Amy. S’fine.”

Amy is torn for a moment – she wants to stay and make sure Mels feels okay, but Mels doesn’t want to let her in; she wants to run inside and _finally_ get her results, but equally she feels like she’d rather jump off a cliff than open that envelope –

“Amy!” Rory is standing at the school entrance, hands in his pockets. “Coming?”

Amy takes a deep breath, and swallows back her indecision. She can do this. Right.

“Coming,” she says, giving Mels one last, searching look, before turning on her heel and following Rory inside.

*

For such an important document – the document that will decide Amy’s future, one way or the other – the envelope looks and feels disappointingly insignificant once it’s in Amy’s hands. It’s just a single, plain manila envelope, brown with her name printed on the front; _Amelia Pond, Form 13B._  When she runs her fingernail under the seal and carefully prises it open, anxious not to tear the envelope’s contents, Amy finds only one sheet of paper, blank on one side and printed with a row of neat letters on the other. Shaking, she pulls out the card, ready to turn it over – and she can’t do it. Not like this, not here, not yet, she needs to take a moment to reflect, she feels like she could take a whole _year_ to reflect and she still wouldn’t be ready –

 “Amy?”

 Amy turns around. Rory is standing there, his own envelope in his hands, his expression unreadable.

 “What?”

 “How did…” Rory pauses, has to clear his throat; his eyes are strangely blank. “How did you do?”

 “I haven’t looked yet.”

 “Oh.”

 “You?”

 Rory smiles, his eye s just a little bitter. “Guess I’m going to Gloucester.”

 For a moment, Amy is lost; then the impact of Rory’s choice of words hits her. “Your… that was your insurance choice, yeah? UWE?”  Rory just nods, and Amy feels wretched; still, she tries for an upbeat smile. “Hey, well done! It’s a great place, yeah?”

 Rory just lifts one shoulder, lets it drop again. “Not awful. And I can live at home, drive in. Make everything cheaper.”

 “Wow, lucky…”

 He raises an eyebrow at that. “Lucky?”

 Amy flushes. “Yes,” she repeats, too stubborn to let Rory make her feel bad for _his_ grades. She worked hard, harder than him, they’ve both _known this_ all along…This is not her fault, no matter how depressed Rory looks. “Well done, you.”

 “Mmh, well,” Rory looks pointedly at her envelope. “I’ll wait outside for you, yeah? Go find Mels, maybe give my parents a ring…”

 “You do that,” Amy says, turning her back on him and returning her attention to the piece of paper still clutched in her hand. She feels sick, and barely registers Rory’s quiet retreating footsteps, leaving her alone in this alcove just off the science corridor, the first place she’d run to after picking up her envelope in the school hall, the first place he’d come looking for her. She’s completely alone now, shut off from the bustling crowds outside, can’t even _hear_ anyone else – really, there’s nothing holding her back from just _looking at the damn results already._

Her fingers are trembling, just slightly.

Amy turns the card over.

 GCE A Level Mathematics……A.

GCE A Level Further Mathematics…..A*.

GCE A Level Physics….A*.

That’s as far as she gets before she staggers backwards, collapsing against the wall and gulping back a relieved sob; two A* grades and an A, that’s her offer, she’s _going to Cambridge_ –

Amy registers the remaining results  -- Biology, A*, Chemistry, A*, French, A – only vaguely, nothing apart from those three all-important letters really getting through to her for the moment.

Natural Sciences at Magdalen College, Cambridge, starting in just five weeks’ time. She’s made it. She’s on her way to…to everything; answers to her questions, knowledge that will be hers for the taking, truth, adulthood, _stars._

*

“You never told me you took _French,_ ” Mels says, staring at the card together with Rory. “When did that happen?”

 Amy shrugs, embarrassed. “Missed it after GCSEs, you know? So I talked to Madame, picked it up again last year, took the classes while we had free periods.”

 “You…” Mels pauses for effect. “You took a French A Level _on top of your full time-table,_ and you took it _in one year instead of two,_ and you got an _star_?”

 When all Amy can do is shrug, and nod, Mels lets out a disbelieving snort. “Fuck, I knew you were good, but,” she stops, looks Amy up and down. “How the hell did you hide just _how_ good from us?”

“Didn’t want anyone to make a fuss,” Amy says quietly, smiling despite herself when Mels starts giggling and Rory just gives her a long, impressed look. “Oh, shut up.”

“I will not shut up!” Mels pulls Amy into a tight, crushing hug. “Miss Cambridge! You have to let me come and visit, yeah? I’ll sleep on your floor, we’ll go out, pick up all the posh public school kids.”

“Oh, god.”

“They won’t know what’s hit them!”

“Oh, _god.”_

“Don’t ‘ _oh, god’_ me,” Mels insists, smiling against Amy’s cheek. “Go on, promise you’ll let me!”

"Course I will, idiot,” Amy laughs. “Any time. You, too,” she adds to Rory, who’s standing back slightly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a moody sort of resentment flickering through his eyes. “Yeah?”

 “Sure,” he nods slowly, after letting the pause drag on for a moment too long. “Sure.”

 Amy bites her lip, looks away. She knows where this anger is coming from, even if she doesn’t want to admit it; London would be so much closer than Cambridge, and if she was closer, if he wasn’t staying at home…if, if, if. Absurdly, she feels oddly guilty. This isn’t her _fault,_ exactly, but you wouldn’t guess it from Rory’s accusing stare.

 Still. Today is her day, today belongs to _happiness,_ to celebrating the end of the beginning, to stepping out on the next leg of a journey that started with the stars and is going to take her…onwards. Amy won’t let anyone take that away from her. 

*

“To my brilliant niece,” Sharon smiles, raising her glass.

 “To Amy,” the group choruses, glasses and flutes clinking together under the low chandelier. Amy giggles, taking a sip of her champagne; the bubbles fizz in the pit of her stomach, the candles giving everything a pleasant warmth and the low hubbub of conversation from the rest of the restaurant making her feel safe, couched in comfort.

 She didn’t expect such a… _fuss,_ a dinner out in the poshest restaurant Upper Leadworth has to offer, an outing by taxi for a whole group of friends, all organised in secret by Aunt Sharon... It’s funny to see them all gathered here now, gathered here _for her._ Aunt Sharon’s here, and so are Rory’s parents; Laura, Jeff and Carl from school; Mr and Mrs Cartwright from next door, and their son Jamie, who Amy knows her aunt has been trying to set her up with for the last decade but who, Amy also knows, has been going out with Ryan (his _other_ neighbour) for the last year; Doctor Burgess; and, of course, Rory, and Mels.

 “Cheers, guys,” Amy grins, when she sees them all looking up at her with some form of expectation. “Now everyone stop looking at me.”

 “Speech, speech, speech,” Mels insists, banging her fork against the table with a wicked grin; Amy throws a piece of garlic bread at her, earning both of them a reproving sort of _sniff_ from a passing waiter.

 “I’m not making a speech,” Amy says, to a disappointed chorus of groans. “No, seriously!”

 “Wait a few hours,” Mels promises, turning to Aunt Sharon. “Get her drunk first.”

 Amy slumps slightly in her chair, giggling into her glass of bubbly and looking around the gathered party with a sort of fondness welling up inside her. She’s going to miss this village, these _people,_ however excited she might be.

 The evening passes too quickly; all too soon, they’re finishing pudding and passing around after-dinner mints. The Cartwrights excuse themselves early, and then Jeff and Carl get picked up by their mum; Amy hugs them all fiercely, thanking them over and over again for the cards and book tokens and well wishes, but she has to admit that she’s relieved to see the party dwindle eventually. It’s exhausting, paying attention to so many people at once, never wanting to leave anyone out, not when everyone has gathered here for _her._

“Okay?” Rory murmurs, nudging her arm gently; Amy just gives him a slightly-sleepy smile, letting her head fall against his shoulder and watching the conversation through hooded eyes.

“Well,” Aunt Sharon says then, jerking Amy out of her thoughts with a snap of her purse. “Time to go, I think.”

“Rory, love,” Mrs Williams says, after a brief discussion with her husband. “You all right to drive back?”

“Um –“ Rory swells with importance; he only got his full license a few weeks ago, and has been itching to drive at every chance he gets. “Yes, of course! Yeah, I only had that one glass, when we all sat down.”

“Then, Sharon, if you don’t mind dropping me and Pat off…” Mr Williams turns to Amy’s aunt, who nods. “We thought we could let these young folk stay out a bit later, hmm? Give them a chance to celebrate without us old fogeys getting in the way.”

Amy has to bite back a grin as she watches Aunt Sharon turn over the proposition in her mind. She can see her aunt’s dilemma; on the one hand, Amy staying out late usually involves at least a week’s notice and negotiation of terms…On the other, it _is_ her last week at home, and hardly she hardly wants to seem stuffy in comparison to Rory’s parents.

“That would be nice, yes,” Sharon says eventually, laughing when Amy throws an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Hey! And mind you behave yourself, madam. You’re living under my roof yet.”

“For another six days,” Amy giggles; she nods, though, giving her aunt a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, auntie. Best behaviour.”

“That’s bloody likely,” Sharon grumbles, but she’s smiling.

Mels gives a quiet cheer, downing the remaining dregs of her wine and getting to her feet only slightly unsteadily. “Come on,” she giggles, pulling Laura up by one hand. “Let’s go find somewhere _cool._ ”

“In Upper Leadworth?” Laura asks, rolling her eyes; Mels just nods enthusiastically, bouncing on her toes. “All right, all right.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Rory decides pragmatically, giving Amy a small grin and gently nudging Laura and Mels towards the door. “Out, come on, get some fresh air. _Mels._ ”

Amy just about makes out Mels’ badly-whispered, “Oh, _da-ad…_ ” before the restaurant doors swing shut behind them; she lets out a small laugh. God, she loves her friends.

“We’ll see you later,” she promises her aunt and Rory’s parents. “Not too late, I swear.”

“It’s all right by us, dead,” Mrs Williams chuckles. ”You enjoy yourselves, now.”

“We will!”

Doctor Burgess chooses that moment to stand up, reaching somewhat awkwardly for his coat. “Well, I’ll best be off.”

“Oh!” Amy feels foolish; she’d almost forgotten he was there. “Doctor Burgess, it was so nice of you to come out—“

“Kevin, please.”

“Kevin,” Amy repeats dumbly, blushing. “Right.”

 Sometimes it’s hard to remember that she hasn’t been his patient for a good two years now; somehow, Amy finds it hard to forget the days when she would scream and yell and kick at him, and he would only ask her more questions, always patient, always gentle, but never kind. Never _proud_ of her. Until now, apparently.

 “I really am proud of you,” he’s saying, as if to prove a point. “I think we can all agree you’ve achieved great things, despite – well, despite how difficult things were, for a time.”

 “Yeah,” Amy says, forcing herself to smile. “Thanks.”

 Aunt Sharon smiles at her, then reaches across to shake Doctor Burgess’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Really, I can’t – _we_ can’t thank you enough.”

  _Thank you_.

 The thought had barely even crossed Amy’s mind; if there is one emotion she has never felt towards her psychiatrist, it has been gratitude. Somehow, she doubts he would be as _proud_ of her if he knew she lied to him, consciously and deliberately _lied_ , for a full year before finally getting discharged from the psychiatric clinic.

 Still. There’s no way Amy will admit to that _now,_ not when she’s finally so close to leaving all of it behind. “Yeah,” she says instead, painting a contrite smile across her features. “Thank you, Doctor – Kevin.”

 “That means a lot, coming from you,” the doctor smiles, his expression oily and satisfied; Amy thinks dully that he must see her as his biggest success story. “Truly.”

 Amy doesn’t know how long it takes her to say her goodbyes after that, only that the time passes in a blur – by the time she has politely extracted herself and gone to get her coat, her insides are churning and she thinks she might be sick.

 “Hey, finally –“ Mels jumps up from the pillar she’s been leaning on outside the restaurant. “Hey, what’s up?”

 “Let’s just go,” Amy says, already striding away; dimly, she is aware of Laura, Mels, and Rory falling into step behind her. 

*

Half an hour later, Amy can hardly remember being angry; she’s good at that, shrugging it off and forcing herself to forget and _moving on._ Mels and Laura are sharing an ice cream cone from the burger van by the bus station – about the only place in town that serves food after 10 o’clock – and the square is spread out silent and deserted in front of them. Rory is sitting next to her on an old cast iron bench, his knee knocking companionably against hers; they’ve been sitting here in near silence for the last few minutes, just…breathing. It’s nice, Amy thinks.

 “So, what do you reckon?” Rory asks her then, his voice low, his mouth close to her ear; she starts slightly, and sees his lips twitch into a smirk out of the corner of her eye.

 “Uh,” Amy manages, twisting slightly in her seat to face him. “What?”

 Rory just nods across the square, where Mels is now licking a smudge of ice cream off Laura’s index finger, both of them laughing quietly. “Those two.”

 “Oh…” Amy focuses, narrows her eyes. Realisation hits her, and she has to look away. “ _Oh._ Right.”

 “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”

 Amy purses her lips. “You think?”

 Rory just scoffs incredulously. “You _don’t?_ ” When Amy just shrugs, he gives her a small grin. “Well. Guess it takes a small amount of, you know. _Observational skills._ ”

 “Hey!” Amy protests, though it’s true; she does just _occasionally_ miss out something glaringly obvious. “Okay, fine. I’m blind, they’re clearly into each other, happy?”

 “Happy,” Rory nods, smug; Amy elbows him in the ribs ( _gently_ ), and he has to laugh, jumping up suddenly from the bench and pulling Amy up by one hand. “Come on!”

 “What…” Amy stumbles slightly as he takes off at a fast pace. “Where are we going?”

 Rory doesn’t answer, just pulls her along by one hand until they’ve crossed the square. Mels looks up from where she is now sitting in Laura’s lap, painting a surprisingly detailed dick on the other girl’s cheek. Laura blushes, and goes to push Mels off, mumbling something about it being time to go home, but Mels sits tight; only shuffles slightly, wiggling her hips against Laura’s, and smiling sunnily up at Rory and Amy. “Can we help you?”

 “We’re going for a walk,” Rory says, flexing his hand slightly in Amy’s; Mels arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. “See you two in a bit?”

 “If you must,” Mels yawns, leaning back and tilting her head up to press a lazy kiss to the base of Laura’s neck. “Bye, bye, now.”

 Laura is, by now, blushing hotly, but meets Amy’s half-hidden smirk with an endearingly defiant stare.  Amy has to laugh at that, pressing her free hand to her mouth in a hiccupped attempt to stifle the sound. “Okay,” she says, nodding, already taking a step back; it’s her who’s pulling now, and Rory who’s following. “See you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Mels calls after them, and once _that_ sinks in Amy just about has the presence of mind to flip her off before she’s running, laughing freely when Rory breaks into a panicked jog to keep up with her.

 They run for what could be forever but in reality can’t be more than a few minutes, run through winding alleys and empty streets until they burst, full-pelt into the fields that mark one end of the school grounds that have been their turf for so long. The grass is soft under Amy’s feet, a little water seeping through the soles of her thin shoes, and the air suddenly feels colder on her bare arms. She slows down, comes to a standstill, breathing heavily; Rory stands close next to her, his chest rising and falling evenly.

 “Hey,” he grins, when he sees her looking; Amy scowls on instinct, looks away. Rory watches her for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Hey. _Amy._ ”

 “What?”

 “Look at me,” he says quietly, and Amy is scared, so scared of messing this up before anything even starts, she’s not sure she can even meet his eyes –

 She takes a deep breath, and turns to face him fully. His eyes are fixed on hers, his smile small but sure; his entire posture is one of assurance, of quiet, patient confidence. Looking at him now, Amy thinks she was silly to ever doubt the road that brought them here; looking at him now, she thinks she could never doubt again. So what if she’s moving next week? So what if she’s about to start this whole new chapter of her life, a chapter that will take her away from Leadworth and home and everyone she knows? So what if she has no idea what she’s doing, really, or how she’s going to get where she needs to be?

 Rory thinks Amy can do it. Looking at him now, so does she.

 Biting down slightly on her lower lip, Amy raises one hand, runs it up Rory’s arm; he leans into her touch slightly, bringing up one hand to rest at her waist. Amy smiles, taking a minute step towards him; Rory mirrors her movements, until they’re standing toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip, as close as they can be without actually touching, save for the white-hot point of contact at Amy’s waist, and through the palm of her hand still resting against his shoulder.

 “Okay?” Rory asks, and Amy has to swallow back a nervous gulp of air before she can nod.

 “Okay,” she says, finally raising her eyes again to meet his; the contact feels almost physical. “Yeah.”

 He smiles at that, breathing out a slow breath of air – and then he’s ducking his head, and Amy is leaning _up_ just slightly, and he’s closer now, close enough that Amy can count the light freckles dusting the bridge of his nose –

 Rory leans just that little bit closer, brushing his lips against hers, hesitant, questioning. Amy yields to the touch, letting her eyes flutter shut; but then a bolt of panic flushes through her, and she rears back.

 “Rory,” she manages, shaking her head numbly. “Rory, I’m leaving in a week, we’re –“

 He takes a step towards her. “So?”

 “We…” Amy feels sluggish, slow; she has her reasons, she knows she has her reasons, but…

 “Amy,” Rory says quietly, his eyes fixed on hers. “I don’t care. I’ll come see you. We’ll see each other in the holidays. There’s Skype, and we can talk every day, just…”

 “Just?”

“Don’t let that be your reason,” Rory tells her, and, _oh,_ Amy feels that sink through her. “If you don’t want this, just say so.”

“I do -“ And suddenly, Amy knows. Knows she can’t lose Rory, knows that if he’s willing to see this through, that if he’s going to stick by her even if she’s moving halfway across the country, then…so she is. “I do,” she repeats, stronger; a small smile tugs at the edges of Rory’s mouth, and he raises an eyebrow.

 “Yeah?”

 “ _Yes_ ,” Amy says, feeling a thousand times lighter. A weight has lifted from her shoulders, the pressure that has been building behind her temples for months now just…evaporating away. She’s made a choice, and she can’t help but feel like taking a step, _any_ step, is a good start.

 This time, it’s Amy that leans in first; Rory kisses her back softly, and she melts into the touch, feeling _safe_ for the first time since results day, since she found out for _sure_ that she’ll be leaving, that she’ll be heading out on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that...concludes how much I have written so far. Oops. NaNoWriMo kind of went out the window this week, with sickness and family stuff and school stuff and work. But I'm planning a big writing weekend, so fingers crossed I'll have a chapter for you next Monday as usual!


	4. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, still (marginally) on schedule, yeah! A little implication of smut here, but it's all post-event.

“ _Hey, Amy, it’s me again. Just wanted to say goodnight, call me if you get in before one, yeah? All right. Bye!”_  

Amy presses three-for-delete on the dialling pad, hardly bothering to lift her head from the book she’s currently using as a pillow. It’s eleven thirty at night, and she’s only just  _started_  the problem sheet she came to the library to do, and it’s due the next day, and she’s already so tired she can feel a faint buzzing in the tips of her fingers. Still. She hasn’t spoken to Rory in a few days – they’ve exchanged a fair amount of texts, and she snapchatted him from her lecture this morning, but it’s not enough. She knows it’s not enough.  

Pressing her fingers against the sides of her forehead and biting back a groan, Amy gets up and leaves her study cartel, giving Clara a brief wave before ducking outside and dialling Rory’s number. He picks up after three rings, sounding genuinely pleased to hear her. 

“Amy! Didn’t think you’d call back so soon!” 

“Hey,” Amy says, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t pick up, I was in the library.” 

“At  _half past eleven_?” 

“Got a problem sheet for tomorrow,” she explains perfunctorily. “Have to get it done.” 

“How long have you had it for?” 

“A few days, but-“ 

She hears him laugh. “Model student, this one.” 

“I’ve been really busy-“ 

“Mmh.” 

“Hey!” Amy taps her fingers against the terrace’s iron railings, feeling the cold reverberate through her. “Rory!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Rory says, though he’s still clearly holding back a laugh; Amy takes a deep breath. “Go out earlier, then? Straight from the pub to the library?” 

Amy pulls a face at the implication. “ _No,_ ” she insists, though she doesn’t know why this feels so important to her. “No, I didn’t go out, I was doing some research.” 

“Ah,” Rory hums, finally sounding at least vaguely sympathetic. “Working you hard?” 

Amy rolls her eyes. “Rory, it’s  _Cambridge_.” Immediately, she knows it was the wrong thing to say; she didn’t mean to sound so patronising, but that’s the way Rory’s reading it, if his sudden silence is anything to go by.  “I only meant –“she starts, her voice catching in her throat. “Sorry, okay? Sorry. Long day. Yeah, they’re working us hard.” 

“It’s all right,” Rory says, after a marked pause. “You’re right, yeah, course you’re right. It is  _Cambridge._  Still,” he adds, voice brightening. “Having fun?” 

Amy can’t help it; she starts to smile. “Yeah,” she nods, feeling a warmth spread through her. “Yeah, god, it’s  _so_  good, I’m learning a lot…I mean, it’s hard work, but really rewarding, you know? They let you go as far as you want with the material if you’re interested, my tutor’s really great, she gave me these extra books on, like, it’s called topology?  About what shape the universe might be, and how that affects the way light and sound waves bend and stretch and travel, and –“ 

She cuts herself off, and Rory laughs. “Sounds ridiculous,” he tells her, though there’s no real bite there. “What shape is the universe? Doesn’t it just…happen everywhere? What would be  _outside_?” 

Amy cuts him off with a wave of her hand, remembering too late that he isn’t actually  _there_. “Well, there has to be a shape to it, we  _think_ , because otherwise –“ 

“ _We think_?” Rory interrupts, sounding bemused. “Who’s  _we_?” 

“Physicists,” Amy says, knowing that she sounds incredibly pretentious and not knowing how to come across any differently; she’s too fired up, too involved, and maybe also just  _too tired_ to know how to structure her thoughts any other way. 

“Physicists, you included,” Rory notes, with a faint tone of irony that Amy studiously ignores. “I see.” 

“Oh, shut up,” she grins, smiling when she hears him laugh. “I’m tired, okay, I’ve been in the library for…eight hours.” 

“ _Eight._ ” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you’ve still got a worksheet to do?” 

“Yeah,” Amy repeats defensively. “And?” 

“Couldn’t you have…done that first?” By the sounds of it, Rory is genuinely trying to make a helpful suggestion, so Amy does her best not to react with immediate aggression.  “Seeing as it’s due tomorrow?” 

“I got caught up in the research,” Amy admits. “It’s not for class, I just had some questions for my tutor about this thing that got mentioned in a physics lecture,  the way matter behaves near black holes, I was wondering if that could affect the multiverse theory, you know, the idea that there are an infinite number of universes? So she pointed me towards those topology books, and I just kind of….got stuck there. I don’t know. Interesting, I guess.” 

“Sounds interesting,” Rory agrees, though Amy has a feeling he’s only doing it to appease her. “So you’re really getting stuck in, then?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Amy half-laughs. “It’s amazing, Rory, seriously. They give you so much.” 

“I’ll let you get back to it, then,” Rory says. “Finish your worksheet on- what was it?” 

“Evolutionary biology.” 

“Biology, right.” 

“Right,” Amy repeats, feeling wrong-footed; she has a feeling she should say something, though she’s not sure what. Then it hits her. “How’ve you been, anyway?” 

“I’m good,” Rory tells her, sighing a little. “Tired, you know.” 

“How’s the course?” 

“Okay. It’s, you know. Bit of science, little bit of medicine. Lots about interacting with patients...” 

“Sounds great!”  

“Yeah,” he says, with a faintly bitter twist that Amy can almost picture curling the sides of his lips. “Well.” 

“Well.” 

“I’ll speak to you soon, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Amy nods rapidly, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Yeah, okay, I’ll call you tomorrow?” 

“Okay,” Rory agrees, sounding surprised that Amy’s offering to call of her own volition. Amy wonders what it says about her, that – three weeks into term – this is already a rare occurrence. “Maybe see you soon? You were planning on coming back for mum’s fiftieth, right?” 

 “Pat, right, yeah,” Amy says, mentally racing ahead to the next weekend. “Right, that was –Saturday after next? Two weeks’ time?” 

“A week and a half,” Rory corrects. “Next weekend.” 

“Oh, god, um-” 

“Amy…” 

“I’ll have to see, I think I have a lab report due the Monday after that, I’ll find out tomorrow, okay, let you know?” 

“It’d be great to see you,” Rory says quietly. “Really.” 

“I know, I know, me too – I miss you too –“ Amy bites her lip. “I’ll try.” 

“Well,” he says, sounding resigned already; Amy flushes at the implication, but says nothing -  she’s already half back in her books, bouncing on the balls of her feet, ready to hang up. “All right. See you later.”

“Bye,” Amy retorts, too cheerful; then, with some effort: “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Rory tells her, sounding…mollified; Amy breathes a small sigh of relief. “Night!”

*

Amy works late – the worksheet takes her a bit longer than she expected, and then she goes back to her reading, barely noticing the study room emptying as everyone else gives up and goes home for the night. Even Clara, her always-chipper flatmate, packs her things together long before Amy is even thinking about calling it a night.

“See you later, Amy,” Clara calls, from the door. Amy starts; it’s the loudest noise she’s heard in a good hour or two.

“What? Oh, yeah…” her voice is croaky, underused. “Good night!”

“Should I wait for you? Hot chocolate and an episode of _Friends_ before bed?”

“I’m…” for a moment, Amy is tempted; she gets on well with Clara, and their cosy study-breaks have become somewhat of a habit. Clara, a second-year Geography student with a love for black-and-white French films and couscous, is on the face of it no less busy than Amy – but somehow, it always seems to be Amy who’s the last to close her books. “No, don’t worry. Got a bit more to do here, anyway.”

“Okay…” Clara lingers, frowning a little. “First test coming up?”

“Um – no, I’m just getting ahead on some reading, really,” Amy tells her, gesturing vaguely at her books. “Stuff that my tutor recommended I take a look at.”

“Right, wow,” Clara nods, raising an eyebrow. “Jesus, maybe Geography really is the easy science… Three weeks into first year, I don’t think I’d even found the library yet.”

“Clara!”

“Okay, maybe sort of kidding on that one,” Clara grins. “Seriously, though. Enjoy yourself, too, okay?”

“ _Yes,_ okay!”

“See you later, weirdo.”

“Bye,” Amy half-laughs, smiling when Clara gives her a silly wave before shutting the door of their cartel behind her. Suddenly, the tiny room is doused in silence again, and Amy is alone with the flickering fluorescent lighting and an inviting-looking pile of books. She glances at her phone; it’s nearly two in the morning.

Just one more chapter, then. She _has_ got class in the morning, after all.

*

“Hey, Amy…Amy, wake up.”

Amy stirs slowly, blinking once, then twice, her eyes protesting at the harsh winter sunlight; it’s warm, though, warmer than Amy’s used to, and she curls instinctively back into the warmth, cuddling herself into the duvet and breathing out slowly. From somewhere to her left, she hears a low chuckle, the voice rough from sleep.

“Morning, sleepy.”

Oh, god. Oh, god, she’s hungover and she got drunk last night and now she’s _in someone’s bed,_ and she’s a terrible, awful person –

Amy’s eyes fly open, and settle after a moment of blurry confusion on Rory’s face.

_Right._

So… Her life choices are not quite as terrible as all that, then.

“Morning,” Amy groans, coughing twice. “God. What times is it?”

“Almost ten,” Rory tells her, looking amused. “I let you sleep, you seemed out of it.”

“Mmgghh.”

Amy sits up slowly, stretching her limbs cautiously; on closer inspection of her surroundings, she feels almost relieved. She’s in Rory’s room, the bedspread still the same blue-and-white stripes as always, the posters on the walls still the same ones that were here when she used to sleep over as a kid. She’s home for the weekend, here to celebrate Pat’s fiftieth birthday; there was wine last night, and plenty of it; she and Rory excused themselves around midnight, sprinting upstairs with two pilfered bottles of Pinot Grigio, and then… 

Well.

Amy’s bra is draped accusingly over Rory’s desk-lamp, and really, that’s all that needs to be said about…that.

Rory seems disarmingly keen, however, to linger; he’s pressing his lips to Amy’s bare shoulder, the faint scratch from his stubble doing nothing to stop her body from treacherously leaning into his touch.

“Hey, you,” Rory murmurs, running one hand softly up Amy’s arm; she could say that the goose-bumps are simply a result of the cold, but Amy has a sneaking feeling she wouldn’t even be convincing herself. “Last night was brilliant.”

She’d roll her eyes at the cliché, if she wasn’t trying so hard not to giggle. Instead, Amy tilts her head to smile at Rory, close enough to see where his eyelashes cross each other, close enough to just lean forwards and… Their lips meet in a hazy, lazy mess of a kiss, their noses bumping together and both of them laughing through it; eventually, it is Rory who pulls back, with an apologetic shrug.

“Got to get some clothes on,” he explains, gesturing to his bare chest; Amy pouts, and he can’t help the smirk that twists his mouth. “It’s cold!”

“Go on, then,” Amy nods, tugging the blanket right up to her nose as soon as Rory vacates the mattress. “I’m just gonna…stay here.”

“All right for some,” Rory laughs. “You were kicking me half the night, I swear you had the whole duvet wrapped around you at one point.”

“Yeah, well…Worth it?”

Rory pauses, mid-tugging a sweater over his head, to come and press a kiss to the top of Amy’s hair. “Always.”

“ _Loser,_ ” she shouts, as he heads for the door.

“Yeah, yeah… shit-ton of milk and three sugars?”

“You know the drill.”

Rory’s still smiling three minutes later, when he comes back upstairs with two mugs of tea and a plate of crumpets. Amy has salvaged most of her clothes by now, and they both sit themselves down cross-legged on top of the covers to settle into an only marginally-awkward breakfast for two.

“Do you feel any – different?” Rory asks eventually, studiously buttering a crumpet; the tips of his ears are red.

Amy watches him for a moment, then shrugs. “Dunno.”

“It was – all right, wasn’t it?”

“ _Yes,_ for the third time,” Amy snaps, nudging her toes against Rory’s knee. “ _Honest._ ”

“Well,” Rory says, blushing even more when he looks up and meets her eyes. “Good. I’m glad. I didn’t want…I’m glad you…I’m happy if you’re happy.”

“And I’m happy,” Amy answers, rolling her eyes, just a little. “It’s just _sex,_ Rory. God.”

“Well. I’d never—“ from the way Rory cuts himself off, Amy can already sense his next question.

“Summer after GCSEs,” she says quietly, watching him for any reaction, though his face is carefully blank. “You _know_ I went out with Jeff for a bit, Rory, come on.”

“Well, yes, but – “

“But _what_?”

Rory, wisely, says nothing; a prickly sort of silence resumes.

 

After that, it’s not long before Amy has to get her things together and leave for the station – Rory offers her a lift, but she shakes her head. “Have to get home,” she explains, already buttoning up her coat. “I left some books there. Thought I could get some reading done on the train.”

“You never stop, do you?” Rory asks, sounding amused; they’ve glossed over whatever awkwardness there was, and are back to cautiously casual insults as their preferred form of showing affection. “Geek.”

“Mmh,” Amy nods, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “A hot geek, though, admit it….Filling your daydreams of fantasies about sex in the library, sex in the chemistry lab, sex in the lecture theatre…”

“Wow, that was bad.”

“Oh, Rory,” Amy purrs, throwing her arms around him and pulling him close. “You’re so hot you make my enzymes denature.,,”

“ _Wow,”_ Rory stares, though his lips are twitching; Amy bats her lashes at him, and he breaks, laughing helplessly. “God, you’re awful.”

“I know, I know, it’s why you love me so much.”

“Must be, yeah,” Rory huffs, handing Amy her bag. “You got everything?”

“Nah, I left my knickers in your laundry bin,” Amy giggles. “Give Pat and Brian something to gossip about.”

“Amy!”

 _“Yes,_ I’ve got everything,” she tells him. “Now I really have to run, else I won’t make my train.”

“Yeah, yeah, go,” he says, pushing her towards the door. “See you soon, okay? I’ll come up, see what all the fuss about Cambridge is…”

“Be great, yeah!” Amy lets him kiss her once more, then forces herself to pull away. “Right. Bye!”

“Bye,” he calls, as she hurtles off down the garden path. “Miss you!”

“Miss you…” she shouts back, with one last wave; then he closes the door, and is out of her sight. Blinking back a surprising tear or two, Amy rolls her shoulders back and starts the all-too familiar walk home. She’ll see him soon. They’re good, they’re fine; they’ll see each other soon, and then it’s almost Christmas break. They’ll be fine.

*

As soon as she steps off the train and onto platform two at Cambridge, Amy is sucked back in; her three days away pale into insignificance, notable only for the homework that she left piling up, and she finds herself swept away by an ever-increasingly hectic timetable that barely leaves her time to _sleep,_ let alone read anything outside her course. Not that Amy doesn’t _try_ to fit it all in, of course; at her most productive, she goes five days straight without speaking to another human and then goes straight from a night of research into a three-hour Biology lab.

“Hello, you look awful,” is Clara’s first remark when Amy comes home that afternoon. “Jesus, Amy, where have you _been_?”

“Working,” Amy groans, sinking into one of the shabby sofas that populates their common room. “In my room, mostly.”

Clara eyes her critically, and then stands up with a determined air. “Right,” she announces, grabbing Amy’s hand and pulling her to her unwilling feet. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?” Amy asks, as she’s pulled along by one hand, stumbling over her feet. “Clara!”

“You’re going to sleep now,” Clara tells her, gently nudging her towards her bed. “And I’m going to come wake you up in three hours, and we’re going out for dinner with whoever else I can drum up, and then we’re going to go to a _party._ ”

“…Party?”

“Yeah, Amy, a party,” Clara grins, patting Amy none-to-gently on the head. “You know, one of those things us student types are supposed to go to? Drinking. Socialising. People! Fun!”

“You’re a bad influence,” Amy yawns, pulling off her shoes and letting Clara bundle her into her blankets. “I’m reporting you for….for bad…influencing.”

“Yep, making sure you get some sleep and food,” Clara nods, drawing the curtains shut with a small laugh. “Really bad influence. _Sleep,_ Amy.”

“Bossy,” Amy grumbles, from inside her pillowcase; Clara just laughs again, and turns the light off on her way out.

 

Amy doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing she knows, it’s three hours later, and she’s being shaken awake.

“Go away,” she growls, forcefully tugging the blanket over her head. “I’m serious. Let me _sleep_.”

“Come on,” a cheerful Northern lilt informs her, pulling the blankets away, and, _god,_ she hates her flatmate, she _needs to find new friends,_ better ones, friends who will let her sleep – “Naptime’s over. Rise and shine!”

“I hate you,” Amy tells a resolutely cheerful Clara.

“I know,” Clara responds, handing over a hairbrush and scrunchie without being asked. “Now come on! We’ve got reservations for six thirty at The Snug, Edward and Ritchie are meeting us there.”

“Edward? Ritchie?” Amy struggles to keep up; Clara, meanwhile, is rootling around in her make-up bag. “Also, the _Snug_? Do you actually live in a Disney cartoon, Clara, or is that a real place?”

“Here,” Clara says, handing her a lipstick. “Get ready. Edward’s in my seminar group, Ritchie rows with him. And, yes, The Snug, it’s a restaurant with crazy cocktails _,_ if you actually went out once in a while you’d probably have heard of it.”

“Cold,” Amy snorts, sitting up and half-heartedly pulling on the dress that Clara hands her, finally shedding the hoodie and leggings she’s been living in for the last three days. “What’s this? This isn’t mine.”

“It’ll look good on you,” Clara shrugs – she’s now sorting through Amy’s handbags and pile of shoes. Amy has a feeling she should feel somehow affronted, but it’s hard to be anything but _charmed_ by this five-foot-something whirlwind of frank enthusiasm. “Come on, get some mascara on, at _least_!”

Amy takes a moment to crick the bones in her spine, shaking her torso from side to side until she feels marginally more present; after that, it’s the work of a few moments to zip her dress up – the hem sits almost criminally short on her, but Clara assures her that _the boots make it work_ – and tie  her hair back, dab on a few minimal touches of make-up, and retrieve her phone from underneath the pillows.

“All right?” Clara asks, as Amy checks her phone. Two messages, both from Rory. She’ll answer them later.

“Let’s go,” Amy nods, sliding her phone into the bag that Clara hands her. “I’m excited!”

“As well you should be,” Clara says, with a small, victorious grin. “It took a lot of work to get this set up, you know. Hardly anyone wanted to come out, they’re all days behind on essays and lab reports and god knows what else.”

“I owe you,” Amy promises, and Clara simply cackles.

“Good!”

And with that, they’re off, bare legs cold in the drizzling night air, shoes clicking energetically against the slick pavements. Despite her sleep-addled mind, despite all her misgivings, Amy is excited; six weeks into her first semester, and she thinks she’s finally getting the hang of things; tonight, she’s allowed to have some _fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short, semi-fluffy piece of filler for you, though I hope the slow burn is satisfyingly burny enough. It's late. I'm going to bed. See you on Thursday!


End file.
